Over his dead body
by Pegship
Summary: An alternate beginning to season 3, as prompted on castlefanficprompts on tumblr: "Castle doesn't return after the summer, and Beckett arrives to a crime scene, face to face with 'Castle's' dead body."


Esposito is first through the bedroom door. It was ajar, just like the front door, and he eases in, cases the room, observes that the body on the bed is not breathing, and says calmly, "Clear."

There's an echo from Ryan, in the main room, and Beckett, in the bathroom. Esposito steps over and bends to get a look at the victim's face - then suddenly backs away, turning to face the doorway.

"Don't," he jerks out. "Don't look, Beckett. Step out of the room for a minute."

"Why? What's wrong?" Beckett sounds more annoyed than alarmed. She's seen a lot worse in terms of cause of death, but Esposito grabs her arms and hustles her out of the room.

"Trust me," he says hoarsely. He looks at Ryan, nods toward the bedroom, and his partner sidles through the doorway.

Ryan groans, "Oh, God," and Beckett breaks Espo's grip and slips back into the bedroom. The body is too tall for the bed, feet hanging off the end, face down, a thick head of hair soaked with blood and beaten out of shape. At first glance, there's something vaguely familiar about the clothes. Ryan's kneeling beside the bed, and Beckett steps up beside him and leans in. The face is half buried in the bedclothes, the half that shows covered in blood.

Her well-practiced detachment shatters and she catches her breath and gags and claps a hand over her mouth, the burn of bile in the back of her throat.

"It's him," says Ryan. "Isn't it."

Esposito, standing guard, points with his toe at the wallet, on the floor next to the bed, just under a dangling hand. Ryan gloves up - Beckett is fighting for composure - and carefully picks up the wallet, flips it open.

"It's him." Ryan's shoulders slump in defeat. "It's Castle."

: : : : : : :

Beckett has never been to a crime scene where the victim was a friend of hers. Let alone a man she was ready to admit meant more to her than a friend. Right up until he left for the summer with his ex-wife on his arm. The dull resentment that he hadn't called has morphed into shock and regret at his fate.

Which, according to the ME on the scene, is probably blunt force trauma. No bullets or casings found at the scene in the initial sweep, though the place is trashed and something might turn up. The murder weapon is probably the sculpted head of Cupid, broken off its base and lying stained on the floor. So far, no fingerprints - the killer appeared to have been wearing gloves, the everyday kind, not latex, so the crime was likely not premeditated.

In her head, Beckett sticks to collecting facts without assigning names or any other identifiers to the victim. It's the only way she can approach this. Montgomery called to ask if she wanted to hand off the case to someone else, and he didn't seem surprised when she declined.

She studies the victim's clothing. The jacket is all too familiar, brown suede; the pants and shoes look a bit worn, but maybe he's a slob on his off days. The hands are large and well-manicured. There doesn't seem to be any sign of a struggle. He was probably attacked from behind, either by someone he knew and trusted or someone he didn't hear coming.

"I need to turn him over, Detective," says the ME quietly, and Beckett nods. At the last moment she tears her gaze away from the face, the one blue eye staring from under the caked blood covering the forehead and cheek. The crime scene photographer snaps busily away.

"I'm just gonna - step out for a minute," Beckett says. She goes into the bathroom and shuts the door, leaning on the sink and gulping down air, trying not to sob.

Richard Castle, dead. Not just dead, but murdered, and on her watch, practically under her nose. Ironic, he'd say. Oh God, she thinks, never going to hear that voice again, see the smirk that had her name on it. Never find out what his kiss tastes like. Never have so much as a chance to say what she'd wanted to say, in that moment before Gina showed up. Ridiculous, she tells herself. Not like he'd give her a chance, anyway.

And yet - she'd broken up with Tom, and hadn't dated anyone over the summer, refusing to consider that maybe she was waiting for Castle to call and tell her Gina was gone and he was in the Hamptons by himself, and that she should come and join him. Gina. Someone was going to have to tell her. And Alexis, and Martha, which would be even harder.

"I can't think about that," she says to her pale face in the mirror. "One step at a time."

She makes an effort to relax, finger-combs her hair and steps out of the bathroom just in time to hear a cell phone ping in the bedroom.

"Detective," says one of the crime scene unit people. "It's rung a couple of times - I didn't touch it - and now I think someone's texting it. It was in his pocket."

Beckett moves close enough to take the cell from the CSU's hand and looks down at the screen. There are several text messages from Gina.

_RICK. Answer the damn phone. I can speed dial you all day if necessary._

_You can't ignore me forever, Rick. You have a deadline. You owe it to your readers, if not to me and to your contract._

_You promised, if I left you alone out there, you'd get the work done. It's been six weeks. Where the hell are you?_

Six weeks, Beckett thinks, stunned. Gina was only there for a couple of weeks, and it doesn't sound like all is well between them. If there *is* anything between them. She shakes herself; why the hell is she wondering about Castle's relationship with his ex-wife? Whatever it was, it's non-existent. Like Castle himself.

Her throat starts to close up and she knows she's about to cry. She needs distance, space, time, none of which she can spare right now, but she'll settle for five minutes in her car. Dropping the phone in her pocket, she moves swiftly to cross the studio, picking her way through debris and CSU markers, emerging in the hallway and about to turn right, toward the stairs -

and she runs smack into something solid that wasn't there before. Somebody. Not a uniform - plainclothes - a dark pinstripe shirt and a familiar scent and a pair of strong hands steadying her as she stumbles back.

"Where's the fire, Beckett?"

Blue eyes - two of them - shine with amusement, out of an undamaged face, complete with a couple days' worth of stubble and the trademark smirk. His hair is unsullied, his head intact, and Beckett knows she's staring, her mind superimposing the victim's battered face over the smooth features before her.

"Castle," she gulps. "Castle!"

He looks suddenly wary.

"I'm sorry, I should have called, I know, but you know me, I could never resist a dramatic entrance, and I heard there was a body - "

"Castle," she says loudly, and he stops talking and looks like he's steeling himself for a lecture. Instead, she throws her arms around his neck and buries her face against his as the tears start to spill. His arms slide around her and he pulls her in, tight, not questioning, not assuming, just holding her, alive and well and not lying dead in a stranger's bedroom.

Later, she'll grill him as to why his wallet and phone and jacket were found on the victim (stolen earlier that day) and he'll get the story from her and the boys as to the vic's circumstances and his startling resemblance, and he'll tell her how she had totally misinterpreted Gina's (entirely platonic) presence in the Hamptons.

And she'll pull him aside at the precinct and find out what his kiss tastes like.


End file.
